


you are young

by bravepress (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bravepress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry yells your name, and of course you come running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are young

**Author's Note:**

> someday i'll stop stealing prompts from the angst meme.
> 
> today is not that day.
> 
> (with help from nina, who is excellent)

Harry yells your name, and of course you come running.

 

 

It's Monday, your day off, which is supposed to mean that Liam is coming over in an hour with stupid movies and too much popcorn. Instead you find yourself on the floor of the bathroom, trying to hold Harry together while he shakes and cries.

"Hey. Hey, Hazza. C'mon. Look at me, yeah? I'm not angry. Just look at me, please," you half-sing. You wonder if the housekeeper will try to sell the bloody towels. Maybe she'll make enough money off them that she'll be able to quit this job and spend the rest of her life doing things she really likes. Mostly, though, you wonder how soon Liam is going to get here and whether or not you can risk leaving Harry alone long enough to retrieve your phone from the hallway.

Harry is beginning to breathe properly again, without any of the terrified gasping he'd been doing when you first opened the door. "Hi, lovely Harry. That's it. Keep breathing." 

You skate your fingers down his arm. Harry's whole body jerks; one hand fists in your shirt and the other tightens down on the razor, cutting into the palm of his hand and the skin of your shoulder, where Harry's arm had been draped. It's not that it hurts, really, but you give an involuntary little  _ah_ of surprise and push him away, wide-eyed.

"Oh- oh god, I'm so sorry," breathes Harry. These are the first words he's spoken in hours. His voice comes out bruised. There's blood running down his arm again, and you have the good sense to wrap a towel around his hand, pressing in hard. You pry the blade away from Harry with trembling fingers, still trying to find your voice, because Harry has  _never_ hurt you before, not even on accident.

"Lou, please- are you o-okay?" He's crying again, panicking and not breathing well, so you kiss his hair and tighten your grip on his hand. "I didn't mean to, please. Please. Don't hate me."

"I don't hate you, Haz. I couldn't," you say after a moment. You're still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Harry's skin is covered in silvery pink lines, under the fabric of his jumper. You've been trying to keep him from being sad for months now (you could spend weeks drunk off Harry's smile), and now you wonder if when Harry had said he was feeling better he'd really meant _help me, I don't want you to see how badly I'm hurting._

 

 

 

"C'mon, little Styles. You're fine," you mumble. You pull him down onto the sofa, and you're going to put on some inane show and run your fingers through his hair until he calms down, because that's normal. You can still do normal, maybe. You're pretty sure you haven't completely passed it up yet.

But you break after fifteen minutes. "Wish you'd talk to me about this." You trace idle circles on Harry's clean wrist. He looks exhausted and sort of vacant and, more than anything else, very sad.

"M'sorry," he says slowly. "It's just a thing."

You frown. "Does that... does it feel better, though? When you're hurting yourself. Does it make you feel better?" He shakes his head against your thigh. "I won't be mad. I want you to tell me."

"No- fuck, I don't know. I'm so sorry." His breath hitches again and you murmur  _it's okay, love you, not leaving,_ until he can calm himself down.

It really does feel like he's cutting you open, now that you know he does this to himself.

 

 

 

It's a week and two shots later, and yeah, you're pretty sure that getting Harry drunk was a great idea. 

He's tipsy and grinning and you press him to the wall, lips against the underside of his jaw. Sometimes you forget how beautiful Harry is. It always takes you by surprise. You tell him that when you spread him out on the bed, loose-limbed, and he laughs. 

Once his shirt is peeled off (it lands somewhere in what Harry affectionately refers to as  _Louis' suitecase monster_ ) you press sloppy kisses against the scars on his ribs, waiting halfheartedly for him to push you away. 

He doesn't. 

So you manage to break away yourself and look down at the boy in front of you. He's more drunk than you are. Probably. He's maybe drunk enough to talk, and that's what's important.

"Why'd you do it," you ask, keeping your voice light. You kiss his bellybutton, the inside of his knees to make him laugh. 

Harry peers down at you and runs his fingers through your hair. He always seems surprised when it's soft against his skin, and tonight is no exception. "S'like. Like- my head hurts all the time. No. Not my head, but. You know? 

 _No._ You nod.

"And fighting that- um. It's. It doesn't work sometimes? Like you're trying to cut something up, you know, but nothing's actually there." He makes an expansive, incomprehensible gesture, then settles his hands in your hair again. "Cos you want it gone, want to kill it. And then- like. Like maybe the thing you want to kill is in you? No. Is you."

You bite down hard on Harry's hipbone. Hopefully it's enough to bruise. Harry likes marks, and you like Harry, and you don't want to deal with this. "Do you want to die?"

Harry giggles and closes his eyes. "No,  _Lewis._ Just sometimes- sometimes s' good to cut something that actually bleeds."

 

 


End file.
